[Day 7 - Abandoned Subway Station, Underground District]
The darkness was almost comfortable now.
Raven sat in the corner of the abandoned platform, back against cold concrete, watching shadows dance across rusted tracks. No trains had run here in decades. Perfect hiding spot. Perfect tomb.
His body had healed. Mostly. Ribs knitted back together, internal bleeding stopped, wounds closed into pale scars. But something else was wrong.
The power—that overwhelming force he'd felt at the ritual's completion—was gone.
Not entirely. He could still summon Demon Flame. Still use Charm on weak-willed targets. Still move faster than human limits. But it felt... diminished. Like trying to grip water. The transformation backlash had done more than physical damage.
It had broken something fundamental.
"Tier assessment," Azaelith said from beside him, manifested solid in the dark. She'd been testing him all week. Measuring. Calculating. "You're operating at Tier 2. Maybe low Tier 3 on a good day."
"I was Tier 4," Raven muttered.
"You were. Past tense. The backlash from collapsing the ritual while standing at ground zero it fractured your core. Your connection to demonic energy is damaged."
"Can it recover?"
"Maybe. With time. Training. Or" She hesitated.
"Or?"
"Or you embrace it further. Stop trying to hold onto humanity. Let the transformation complete naturally instead of forcing it."
Raven looked at his hands. The contract marking had spread since the cathedral—now crawling up his forearms like black veins. His reflection in puddles showed red eyes that glowed faintly even without active power use.
He was already losing himself. Piece by piece.
The question was how much he'd lose before he couldn't find his way back.
"There's something else," Azaelith said quietly. "I've been sensing emptiness. Where emotions used to be."
Raven frowned. "What do you mean?"
"When was the last time you felt fear? Real fear? Or joy? Or even anger?"
He thought about it. Tried to remember.
Couldn't.
Everything was muted. Distant. Like watching the world through frosted glass.
"The transformation affects more than just power," Azaelith continued. "It rewrites you. Makes you more like us. More demon. Less human."
"Empathy goes first."
"Good," Raven said flatly. "Empathy was always a weakness."
The words came automatic. Cold. True.
And he felt nothing about that truth.
Azaelith's expression shifted. Something that might have been sadness. Might have been resignation.
"It's already starting," she whispered.
The sound came from above. Distant. Growing closer.
Voices. Many of them. Echoing down through subway tunnels.
"Company," Azaelith warned, disappearing into translucent form.
Raven stood, moving to the platform edge where he could see the main tunnel. His spiritual sight activated—world overlaid with energy signatures.
And there were dozens.
Not the white-gold of Tamers. Not the red-black of demons or corrupted spirits.
Just normal Human. Civilian energy signatures.
But armed. He could sense the cold metal of weapons. The heat of torches. The collective anger radiating like a bonfire.
"A mob," Azaelith observed. "Looking for you."
Raven watched them approach. Twenty. Thirty. Forty people. Men and women. Young and old. United by fear and rage.
He could hear their voices now, bouncing off tunnel walls:
"—saw the freak go down here—"
"—monster killed my daughter—"
"—government won't do anything, we have to—"
"—burn the demon out—"
They thought he'd killed civilians. Thought he was responsible for the cathedral massacre. The news had painted him as terrorist. Mass murderer. Demon incarnate.
Technically accurate on the last part.
"What do you do?" Azaelith asked. Testing him.
Raven calculated options with cold precision.
Option 1: Run. Use Demon Step to escape deeper into tunnels. Avoid conflict.
Option 2: Hide. Wait for them to pass. They'd search this platform, find nothing, move on.
Option 3: Intimidate. Show enough power to scare them away without killing.
Option 4: Kill them all. Fastest solution. Most permanent.
A week ago—before the transformation completed—he would have chosen Option 1 or 2. Survival through evasion.
Now
"Option 4 is efficient," he said aloud.
Azaelith stared at him. "Raven. They're civilians. Scared people looking for someone to blame."
"They're threats."
"They're human."
"So?" He looked at her. Red eyes flat. Empty. "I'm not. Not anymore. Why should I care about human lives when I'm being hunted by humans?"
"Because you were one of them. Seven days ago."
"Seven days is a long time."
The mob entered the platform. Torches blazed to life—crude things, wrapped cloth soaked in accelerant. Weapons ranged from kitchen knives to baseball bats to one hunting rifle.
An older man led them. Fifties. Graying hair. Eyes red from crying.
"There!" someone shouted, spotting Raven in the corner.
The mob surged forward. Not coordinated. Not tactical. Just raw emotion given momentum.
Raven ignited both hands. Demon Flame flickered—weaker than before, but still deadly.
"Last chance," he said. Voice layered. Inhuman. "Leave."
"Monster!" the older man screamed. "My granddaughter died because of you! Because of your kind!"
"I didn't kill her."
"You opened the Gate! You let those things through!"
Technically accurate again.
The mob hesitated. Fear warring with rage. They could see the flames. See the red eyes. See something that wasn't human standing before them.
But rage won.
The man with the rifle raised it. Fired.
The bullet moved in slow motion—Raven's enhanced perception tracking its trajectory. Center mass. Kill shot.
He Demon Stepped. Five meters left. The bullet hit concrete where he'd stood.
Appeared behind the rifleman. Grabbed his shoulder.
Activated Charm.
The man's eyes glazed. Will evaporating under Raven's mental pressure. Weak human mind—no spiritual resistance—easy prey.
"Drop the weapon. Turn around. Walk away."
The man complied. Rifle clattered to the ground. He turned. Walked toward the tunnel exit like a puppet.
The mob watched in horror.
"He's controlling him!"
"Demon! It's controlling minds!"
Panic rippled through them. Three people ran immediately. Five more followed.
But the older man—the one who'd lost his granddaughter—didn't run.
He raised his knife. Trembling. Crying.
"I don't care if you kill me," he said. "I don't care anymore. You took everything from me."
Raven stared at him. Tried to feel something. Pity. Guilt. Anything.
Nothing.
Just cold calculation: This man is a threat. Eliminate threat.
He raised his flame-wreathed hand—
Azaelith's manifestation stepped between them. Solid enough to be seen.
The mob gasped. Whispered. "There's two of them."
"Raven," she said quietly, not looking at the mob. Looking at him. "If you kill him, you prove them right. You become the monster they think you are."
"I am a monster."
"You don't have to be."
"Yes. I do. It's what I was made into. What the world turned me into." His red eyes met hers. "Why fight it?"
"Because I've been fighting it for five hundred years. And I don't want you to spend the next five hundred wishing you'd stayed human when you had the chance."
Silence.
The older man stood there. Knife raised. Waiting to die.
Raven looked at him. At the tears. The desperation. The grief.
And felt almost nothing.
A flicker. Distant. Like an echo of what empathy used to feel like.
He lowered his hand. Flames extinguished.
"Go," he said to the mob. "Before I change my mind."
They ran. All of them. Even the older man—survival instinct overriding grief.
Their footsteps echoed away. Fading. Gone.
Azaelith turned to him. "Thank you."
"Don't." Raven's voice was hollow. "I didn't spare them out of mercy. I spared them because killing them would have been loud. Would have attracted Tamers. Strategic decision. Nothing more."
"I don't believe that."
"Believe what you want. But that flicker of hesitation? That echo of empathy? It's fading. Every day. Every hour. Soon there won't be anything left to stop me."
He walked past her. Toward the deeper tunnels.
"Where are you going?"
"To find others like me. Illegal contractors. Outcasts. People the Tamers want dead." He didn't look back. "If I'm going to be hunted, I'm not dying alone. I'm building something. An army. A resistance."
"You're going to start a war."
"They started it. I'm just finishing it."
Azaelith watched him disappear into darkness. Watched the person she'd tried to save slip further away.
"This is my fault," she whispered to the empty platform. "I made you into this."
But Raven was already gone. Already planning. Already calculating how to survive in a world that wanted him dead.
Already becoming the monster they feared.
And feeling nothing about it.
[Meanwhile - Spirit Tamer Organization Headquarters]
Acting Director Vanessa Thorne stared at the wall of monitors. Each one showed a different district. Different searches. Different failures.
"Still no confirmed sighting?" she asked.
Her second-in-command shook his head. "Unconfirmed reports. Possible sightings. But nothing concrete. He's good at hiding."
"He won't hide forever." Vanessa's jaw clenched. "Activate Protocol Shadowhound. Deploy Nois."
Silence in the war room.
"Director Nois is extreme. He doesn't just kill targets. He—"
"I know what he does." She turned. Eyes cold. "And that's exactly why I'm deploying him. Raven Altair needs to understand what happens when you become an enemy of humanity."
She pressed a button. A screen flickered to life.
A man appeared. Lean. Pale. Eyes like chips of black ice. Smile that never reached those eyes.
"Nois," Vanessa said. "You have a target."
The man's smile widened.
"Finally," he purred. "I was getting bored."